


I Love the Bones of You

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Creature!Sam, Drugged Sex, Incest, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Top!Sam, canon-compliant character death, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azazel warned Dean that what he brought back from the dead might not be 100%, pure Sam. Dean thought it was bullshit at the time, but as the deadline for Dean’s contract to Hell approaches, Sam starts to exhibit some strangely clingy and possessive behaviors towards his brother.<br/>(Basically, a ton of unwanted touching from Sam. Definite triggers for non-con near the end and Season 3 canon-compliant character death).</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love the Bones of You

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Elbow song.  
> Deep, deep thanks to katstark and ephermeralk for the beta. I made a lot of changes since sending it to you both, so all mistakes are definitely mine.

“Dude – leave some room for the Holy Spirit,” Dean says in mild irritation. After spitting a foamy mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, he jostles his elbow back into his brother, who’s practically molded to his backside.  
  
“Sorry,” Sam says, not really sounding like it.  His arm reaches around Dean’s side so he can grab his electric razor off the counter, and Dean huffs in annoyance. They’re not in a huge rush right now, having just finished a case the night before, and the bathroom in this particular motel is tiny and cramped. Dean feels like a plastic army man stuffed into a Lego Batmobile, all awkward angles in a space made for a smaller species. He figures the _least_ Sam could do is let him finish his morning routine before taking up more than his share of the space with his Sasquatch-sized frame. But Sam’s already turned on his razor, trying to peer around Dean into the vanity mirror. Sighing again, Dean pointedly shoulder-checks his brother as he goes out the door.  
  
Privacy is a luxury Sam and Dean have never really known, a foreign, unfamiliar concept like single-bed motel rooms and home addresses that don’t start with a P.O. Box. For the majority of their lives, they’ve tried to respect unspoken boundaries for personal belongings and breathing room.  
  
Lately, though, Sam’s been suffocatingly close, always right on Dean’s heels and using any and every excuse to put his massive paws all over Dean. He hasn’t seen his brother this clingy since he was six years old, burying himself in Dean’s arms and refusing to talk to anyone because their dad had just dropped them off with yet another ‘family friend’ so he could take care of some business. Of course back then it hadn’t taken much more than a few Matchbox race cars to dry Sammy’s tears and keep him from curling up in Dean’s lap every other minute. It’s a very different experience trying to convince adult Sam and all of his massively long arms and legs to stay on his side of the couch, booth, and car.  
  
When the touching first started, Dean had assumed that it was Sam’s way of coping with Dean’s impending trip to Hell. Figuring it was still better than having a chick-flick talk about their _feelings_ , Dean ignored Sam’s wandering hands and hoped his brother would calm down after a while. Instead, it’s only gotten worse.  
  
Yesterday, right in the middle of a Biggerson’s, Dean almost decked Sam in the face when he put a hand on Dean’s thigh, too high to be anywhere near acceptable. His brother then had the gall to clamp those fingers down and squeeze, startling Dean enough that he started choking on his burger. A waitress rushed over to ask if he was okay, and after nodding while managing to clear his windpipe, Dean glared at his brother and changed seats.  
  
Ignoring Dean’s pissy glower, Sam smiled a strange, comma-shaped smirk that Dean didn’t recognize before turning a 100-watt smile on the waitress and sweetly asking her to bring them some water.  
  
  
As Dean watches his brother finish shaving through the open doorway, part of him almost wishes for the hounds to drag him down sooner and save him from all this awkward touching. Although Dean’s pretty sure that awkward touching will be the least of his worries in Hell.  
  
*&*  
  
A few days later they’re in-between cases, crashing at a motel in a small town about two hundred miles west of Boston. After putting the finishing touches on Sam’s sandwich, Dean slides it across the table, right in front of the chair that he’d carefully situated on the opposite side of him.  
  
“Sammy – lunch,” he grunts out. Sam’s head snaps up from his laptop where he’d been going through various news articles, trying to find their next hunt. Or, well, Dean _hopes_ that’s what he’s doing. No matter how many times he’s told Sam it’s not worth the risk, he knows his brother’s stubborn and stupid enough to go looking for a way to get Dean out of his contract. In different circumstances, he might’ve admired his brother’s tenacity, but when it’s Sammy’s life on the line, he can’t afford to take any chances.  
  
“Great!” Sam says enthusiastically, shutting his laptop and jumping up from the bed. Passing the table, he opens the mini-fridge to pull out a couple of beers then leans over and reaches one of his ridiculously long arms over Dean’s shoulder to place a cold bottle in front of him.  
  
Dean holds his breath and counts to ten, trying to stay calm. But he can still feel Sam behind him when he finishes counting, his large chest pressed into Dean’s back as his fingers tap lightly on the metal cap. When Sam places his other hand on Dean’s shoulder, Dean decides he’s _done_.  
  
“C’mon, Sam, that’s enough,” Dean growls out, hands coming up to break himself out of Sam’s hold. “Look – I’ll, uh, miss you too, really, but you seriously need to take all this _touchy-feely crap_ and channel it into something healthy. Like getting laid. It’s obviously time to either find yourself a girl or clean out the pipes.”  
  
“Sorry,” Sam murmurs, his tone again lacking that vital ring of sincerity. His hands slide away, although his head lingers over Dean’s shoulder, and Dean can feel Sam breathing in before he pulls away. He thinks about calling his brother out on it – seriously, did Sam just _smell_ him? – but he’s just finished one rant and doesn’t feel like starting another. Not when his stomach’s growling and there’s a perfectly good BLT right in front of him. So he lets the subject drop when Sam sits and tears into the sandwich Dean had made him, gulping back pieces like he hasn’t eaten in a week.  
  
When Sam’s feet bump against his from under the table, Dean glares but doesn’t give in to his first reaction to shove the table into his brother’s stomach. He just kicks at Sam’s shin and grunts at him to keep those fuckin’ Green Giant legs on his own side.  
  
* &*  
  
After a few weeks of dodging a superfluous amount of shoulder pats and more hugs than Dean thinks they’ve shared in their entire lives, Dean feels like he’s about to explode. He’s used to dealing with the occasional assumption from strangers about their relationship, but with Sam hanging all over him, the knowing looks and awkward comments are now a near-constant thing. However, they’re right in the middle of a case and need to focus, so Dean shoves those volatile feelings down and manages not to stab Sam with the nearest sharp object when he hugs Dean seven times in one day.  
  
The case is harder than it should have been, mostly due to several cold trails and embarrassing misdirections, but they finally end up tracking what turns out to be a shapeshifter to an old, crumbling railroad station. The thing gets the jump on them at one point, hurling an axe of all things at Dean’s head, and they don’t even have time to register the _zing_ in the air before it’s almost too late. Sam rushes at Dean in an instant, knocking him safely to the ground then twisting and firing two shots at the creature, nailing it once in the arm before adjusting his aim and squeezing off a clean kill shot between its photocopied eyes.  
  
Flopping back in relief as he rides out the adrenaline, it takes Dean a good few minutes to realize that Sam is still sprawled on top of him with apparently no intention of moving. After taking enough deep breaths to slow his heart rate back to normal, Dean shoves at his brother and orders, “Move it.” When Sam doesn’t immediately get off, Dean shoves again, still with no success, so he punches Sam’s arm and complainingly adds, “ _Today_ , Sam. You’re not exactly a light weight here, and I’d really like to, I dunno, _breathe_ again soon.”  
  
“Yeah, in a minute,” Sam replies unconcernedly, moving his hips to adjust himself more comfortably as his hands push into the ground above Dean’s shoulders. The movement slots their legs into one another, and Dean can feel his brother breathing into his hair, air moving warm and fast. Sam’s heartbeats are thudding from every pulse point, pressed hard against Dean so he honestly can’t tell the difference between the rhythm of his own heart and that of his brother’s.  
  
“I’m not asking twice,” Dean states sharply while Sam lifts his head and smiles back with knowing, slanted eyes. When Sam brings a hand up to touch Dean’s face, it’s the final straw to an already mountain-sized pile of wrong, and Dean starts struggling violently, throwing his arms out and banging his elbows against everything solid within reach.  
  
“Okay, okay, I’m moving,” Sam says, dodging a swing and shoving himself off Dean’s chest. Rolling his eyes, Sam gets to his feet and throws out, “ _Jeez_ , calm down Dean.”  
  
“Calm down?” Dean echoes in disbelief, ignoring the hand Sam holds out and pushing himself up to his feet. “I don’t know what’s up with you lately, but…” He trails off, not sure what to accuse Sam of. He knows that if he stops to analyze Sam’ behavior, tries to pin it down into solid, too real _words_ , that something between them will irrevocably shift.  
  
He just needs Sammy to be his brother for a little while longer. _Seventy-eight days_. That’s all the time he’s got left, and Dean can’t afford to waste any of it. So he settles for blissful ignorance, glaring at Sam and opening his hands in a _what-the-fucking-hell?_ motion.  
  
Sam draws his shoulders up in a vague, lop-sided shrug then glances over at the dead body in the corner. “You wanna bury it?” he asks so casually that it throws Dean for a minute, and he wonders if he really is overreacting. If this is just Sam being his pain-in-the-ass little brother, trying to find a way to cope with Dean’s permanent trip to the deep, _deep_ south and doing a crap-ass job of keeping it together.  
  
“No, we’ll just leave it out for the cops to find,” Dean grunts back with a roll of his eyes. His internal balance is still out of kilter and sarcasm is his easiest, most reliable defense mechanism. “I bet the newspapers would have a fuckin’ field day since he died wearing the local kindergarten teacher’s face.”  
  
The corners of Sam’s lips slip into a small, wry smile, and he turns to head back to the car where they’ve got a couple of shovels stashed in the trunk.  
  
While they’re throwing up dirt, trying not to get it in each other’s eyes, Dean keeps casting wary looks his brother’s way, still unsure and more than a little mistrustful. Sam hasn’t made another move to touch him, completely engrossed by the too-familiar task of grave digging. A ghost of a thought presses a finger between Dean’s eyes, makes him think _This isn’t my brother_ for a brief second, but he quickly brushes away the sensation. He’d know if it wasn’t Sam. And sure, the guy’s been a little… off lately. But Sam is still his brother.  
  
When the flames from the salted corpse cast a flickering glow across Sam’s body, Dean steals a quick glance at his brother’s eyes, searching for any changes in the crackling firelight. They remain their usual shade of hazel, with no hints of black or white or yellow, and Dean’s startled by how much that surprises him.  
  
* &*  
  
It’s a few minutes to midnight when he wakes up to someone sliding under the covers, warm cinnamon breath puffing softly against his neck and body heat radiating into his back. He reaches one hand under his pillow to grasp the knife he keeps hidden but Sam whispers “ _Dean_ ” before he can pull it out, and he lets go of the hilt but doesn’t turn around.  
  
“What the hell, man?” he croaks out, half dreams swimming through his head like iridescent minnows. This last hunt had kept him up nearly the entire week as they’d tried to track the damn monster before it switched skins again, and he’d been looking forward to one night of uninterrupted sleep.  
  
“Just…” Sam sighs. His breath is humid against the tip of Dean’s spine, almost liquid as it brushes across the soft hairs and curls over his shoulder. “Just let me stay, Dean. Please. I keep having nightmares that you’re already gone, and when I wake up, I don’t know if they’re real or not.”  
  
“M’right here,” Dean mumbles back. It’s hard to concentrate because he’s just so damn tired, and Sam’s furnace-like body heat is wrapping around him like an electric blanket, doing a much better job than the motel’s crap heater at keeping away the outside chill.  
  
Sam’s voice is soft and low, and Dean’s not catching any of the actual words, has no idea if Sam’s spilling more fears or worries or confessions, just lets the ocean-swell cadence of his voice lull him back to sleep.  
  
When he wakes up the next morning, he’s not surprised that Sam’s still there, his face smushed into the pillow and one hand pressing against Dean’s back.  
  
Sam’s always been an odd duck with affection, prone to spontaneous, bone-crushing hugs before long goodbyes and significant events but otherwise content to keep to himself. He’s never seemed to crave simple touches as obviously as his older brother. Dean likes to believe it’s because he did his best to fill Sam’s childhood with enough approving words and hugs to get the kid by without the aching hole in his chest that Dean still carries to this day. But now he wonders if it had never been enough. If he’d ultimately failed to meet those needs, unable to replace two absent parents. He wonders if Sam’s just as touch-and-praise starved as he is, albeit not as transparent about it.  
  
Dean feels like he should probably find his full-grown brother crawling into bed with him more awkward than he does. But Dean’s never really denied Sam anything he really wanted, not when it was something he could give. He’s not about to start now.  
  
*&*  
  
It becomes a nightly ritual, Sam sleeping with him, although his brother has the decency to wait until the curtains are drawn and the lights are out. But every night since the first time, Sam lifts the covers, slides in beside his brother, and whispers Dean’s name like Dean isn’t already expecting him by now.  
  
Sometimes Dean puts up a token protest or smart ass comment – “Monsters under your bed, Sammy?” – but he’s generally too tired to do more than grunt some kind of acknowledgement and go back to sleep. One night he stays up just long enough to hear what Sam’s whispering against his back. Hears Sam spill fears that _there’s something wrong with me, Dean. Something more than the demon blood. Something ever since you made that stupid, jackass deal. Do you even know what you brought back? I’m supposed to be dead right now, Dean, and I think something wants me back…_  
  
Part of Dean knows that he should be alarmed by these late-night confessions – should turn around and demand to know what Sam means. But Sam only starts babbling like this when Dean’s skirting the edges of sleep, and he can’t seem to make himself open his eyes much less turn around. By morning Dean’s never sure if it really happened.  
  
He brings it up one day when they’re rolling through Wichita, glancing at Sam from the corners of his eyes as he asks his brother if he’s alright. Sam gives him a blank look and says that he doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about. The subject drops.  
  
* &*  
  
Dean wakes one morning before his brother and stares at the ceiling, his mind muted into blissful, dormiveglia silence. He refuses to do something as stupid as analyze what’s been going on. Especially since Sam seems satisfied with their nighttime arrangement, has become noticeably less cuddly in public, and Dean is just grateful to finally be able to eat at a diner without fear of being groped.  
  
Next to him, Sam makes a small humming sound in his sleep and his hands reach out, grabbing onto Dean’s hip so Sam can draw himself closer. Nuzzling against the soft part of Dean’s neck, Sam makes a contented noise and murmurs a small word into his skin that makes Dean shiver with uneasiness.  
  
Pushing Sam’s hands off of his torso, he manages to untangle himself from his brother’s octopus grip without waking him up. While Sam tightens his hands in sheets still warm from Dean’s body, Dean quietly gets dressed and decides to take a drive and clear his mind.  
  
In the open doorway of their motel room, Dean pauses, watching his brother sleep and wondering what Sam’s going to do when he’s gone. He hopes like hell that Sam will find that domestic, safe-as-houses life his little brother has always wanted. But he also knows that Sam’s a lot more like their father than he’d ever care to admit, and revenge and pain can drive a man to do a lot of things. Like throw his life away on a hopeless mission to bring someone back who belongs to ash and rot.  
  
Dean wonders if it means anything that he’s comparing his brother and him to their parents, and Sam’s sleep-muted word comes back to mind, reminding him just how thoroughly fucked up their relationship is. It probably shouldn’t bother him this much. Hell, it isn’t even like what Sam had whispered against his spine isn’t true.  
  
But the rumble in his brother’s tone had sounded… dangerous. Protective. Maybe even hungry.  
  
Rubbing his thumb against the edge of his temple, Dean sighs again and walks out the door. But no matter how far away from the motel he gets, the word still follows him, four letters rattling like old coins inside his head:  
  
 _Mine_.  
  
* &*  
  
When Dean’s got fifty two days left, they end up at Lake Tahoe taking care of a spirit haunting a cruise boat. The ghost had been a long-time fixture in the ship for years and was generally regarded with affection since it hadn’t done more than harmless pranks in three decades. But over the past six months, the pranks had become increasingly dangerous, edging into malicious, until last week they’d culminated with two guests falling into the paddlewheel and drowning and a staff member being electrocuted to death with a toaster.  
  
All spirits inevitably turn bad. Sam and Dean know this with a surety that comes with violent, hands-on experience and years of their dad drilling the fact into their heads. Once, while they had stood around an opened grave, unconcerned by the familiar, musty-wood smell of a charred dead body, Sam had wondered aloud if it was like a disease, rotting their spirit forms like decaying corpses. Squinting into the smoking hole in the ground, Dean had shrugged and said that he’d always thought of it as a fever; a heat in the brain that makes it difficult for a spirit to think of anything other than rage and anger.  
  
In the end, it doesn’t really matter why. By the time they get to Tahoe, the spirit is in a full-blown fury, and most of the staff have quit. They check out the boat during a night when it’s docked and empty, finding the inside a mess of broken glass and splintered furniture and the ghost not ready to leave without a fight. After Dean’s exhausted his entire rock salt ammo supply, the spirit grabs Sammy by the throat and shoves him against a wall, choking him until his face starts to turn blue. Dean knows from experience that the only thing that can help his brother is to destroy whatever’s connecting the spirit to this world. So he busts open the glass display case while the ghost’s attention is on Sam, grabs the rusty harmonica, and after pouring almost a full bottle of lighter fluid on it, lights it up like a Roman candle.  
  
As soon as the instrument is nothing more than metal charcoal, Sam tumbles to the floor, clutching at his throat and sucking in air in quick gasps. Cursing thickly, Dean rushes over, knees scraping on the hard floor as he examines the extent of the damage. Dark, bruising-red fingerprints circle around Sam’s throat like a necklace, and Dean sighs and wonders why they always go for his brother’s throat. It makes him physically sick, the look on his brother’s face when he’s gasping for air, eyes rolling into the back of his head.  
  
“You okay?” he demands, loosening the collar of Sam’s jacket and rubbing his back, trying to help his brother calm down.  
  
Sam gives him a small nod, still wheezing, but the color’s slowly coming back to his face. “Yeah… yeah. M’good,” he says between pants. Dean waits as Sam’s inhalations are back to a slow and steady rhythm, his hand continuing to rub circles around Sam’s shoulder blade. As Sam takes one last deep breath, he reaches out to grasp Dean’s extended arm and gives his brother a lop-sided, reassuring smile.  
  
Dean’s just about to help him up when Sam’s mouth makes an odd twitch. His eyes flick up to meet Dean’s, jaw tightened with some kind of resolve. Then, moving so swiftly that Dean doesn’t even register what’s happening until it’s over, Sam leans over and brushes his lips against Dean’s in a soft, barely-there kiss that ends before it even really began.  
  
For a moment, all Dean can do is blink and gape at his brother, unable to completely process what just happened and not even sure if he wants to. Sam tilts his head, his expression blank except for a little curiosity as his almond-shaped eyes wait patiently for some kind of response.  
  
But Dean’s too tired and sore to figure this bullshit out tonight. Taking a deep breath, he yanks his arm out of Sam’s hold, straightens up, and walks away.  
  
When Sam joins him in the car five minutes later, he sighs and starts to speak, but Dean holds up a hand and shakes his head.  
  
“It’s two a.m., and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Dean says as firmly as his exhausted brain will allow, determined to avoid Sam’s explanation for whatever the hell that was. “So we’re gonna stop at the closest all-night diner, and then you and I are going back to the motel to sleep for a week.”  
  
Sam’s mouth twitches again, eyes narrowed in assessment. But Dean just stares him down until Sam finally nods, and Dean starts the car.  
  
*&*  
  
When they get to the diner, Dean’s almost too tired to appreciate the warm platter of bacon and eggs when it arrives. But when the smell registers under his nose, fragrant and flecked with butter and grease, it manages to perk his spirits up.  
  
“Oh my _god_ , Jenny,” he says to the waitress around a mouthful of eggs as she fills Sam’s coffee cup. “These have gotta be the best damn eggs in America. If you could bring me a bottle of hot sauce, I can die a happy man.”  
  
“Of course,” she replies, her smile unusually bright for this time of night. “Comin’ right up. What about you? Did you want anything else?” she asks, turning her attention to Sam.  
  
Frowning darkly, he shakes his head, and Jenny’s sunny expression falters for a moment before she nods at Dean and goes to get the hot sauce.  
  
Dean isn’t sure what’s got Sam glowering like a drenched cat, although he’s willing to bet it has something to do with the very thing that Dean refuses to talk about. But Dean sure as hell isn’t going to baby his brother through his tantrum, so he keeps plowing through his food and turns his attention and charm on the waitress when she comes back with the bottle of Tabasco.  
  
When Sam’s mug is empty, Jenny leans over to fill it back up, but Sam snaps his hand up and roughly swats the hot coffee pot away.  
  
“No more for me,” Sam says tightly. “But if you could stop flashing your cleavage at my brother long enough to get the check…”  
  
Cheeks flushing pink, the waitress quickly turns on her heels to dash behind the counter, coffee pot still in hand.  
  
“What was that?” Dean demands.  
  
“Nothing. Just tired,” Sam snips back, still scowling in the direction of the kitchen. “I thought you wanted to go back to the motel and sleep.”  
  
“Not until I’m done eating. And you didn’t need to manhandle the help,” Dean says with a confused frown. Sighing heavily, he makes a vague gesture towards where Jenny had fled. “I hadn’t even gotten her number yet.”  
  
“We’re done with the case anyway.” Sam shrugs, not the least bit repentant. “We’ll be leaving town tomorrow.”  
  
Dean shakes his head at his brother, unable to understand what’s going on with him. A different waitress comes out with the check, casting death glares at them until they leave, and any shot Dean had at relieving a little tension in the next day or so is gone.  
  
*&*  
  
When they get back to the motel room, Dean throws the bag of gear on a chair and quickly strips down to his boxers. The thought of crashing into the motel’s scratchy sheets seems like heaven, and he slips under the covers, letting his muscles relax into the cheap, lumpy mattress.  
  
Sam flips the lights off and immediately joins him, and Dean doesn’t even have it in him to care anymore. In some ways, it’s nice to have the guy within arm’s reach. Dean spends so much time worrying about his brother that having him this close almost relieves some of the stress of waking up in the morning and having to check to make sure Sam’s okay.  
  
His brother snuggles up closer than usual, breath hot on Dean’s neck, and Dean groans a little, although it’s already an effort to stay awake. “Back off a little, okay Fido?” he mumbles with his eyes closed. “Your coffee breath’s still pretty strong.”  
  
The bed shakes as Sam adjusts himself, hand snaking out to grab onto Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t wanna,” Sam answers, and Dean can feel his brother lean in, nosing into a curve near the top of his spine. It actually feels nice, and Dean sighs but decides he can’t stay up long enough to yell at his brother to back off.  
  
After a minute of Sam dragging the side of his face up Dean’s back, there’s a wet feeling on the back of Dean’s neck, which he blearily registers as Sam’s mouth. _This is weird, isn’t it?_ Dean thinks but can’t summon the energy to attach an emotion with it, especially when everything between them lately has been miles away from normal anyway. He falls asleep half a second after that, breathing deep and relaxing into the wet feeling of Sam mouthing along his neck and shoulders.  
  
By morning, Dean’s aware enough to be worried. He’s not stupid. He knows there’s something wrong with Sam. But the thing is… there’s always been _something wrong with Sam_. Just as there’s always been something wrong with Dean. The only way either of them has been able to pass as functioning people is to ignore all the warning signs and behaviors that would have had their school psychologists calling up both Child Protective Services and juvenile detention centers in the same breath.  
  
Dean knows that his brother’s got just as many abandonment issues as him. For Sam’s fifth birthday, their dad had given Sammy a G.I. Joe action figure, and the kid used to carry it in his backpack all the way through middle school, despite it having one broken arm and a partially-melted leg by the end. And Sammy absolutely refuses to view any place as home, not even Bobby’s. Dean doesn’t really blame Sam for having a hard time putting down roots when he’d been so abruptly and harshly uprooted from every temporary living place they’ve ever had since he was four.  
  
So when Dean ignores all the warning signs, it’s because he’s done it almost all his life. As long as Sam can still pull himself out of bed every morning, that’s enough. Or it was, right up until the moment Dean decides it’s not anymore.  
  
* &*  
  
“Whaddya mean ‘strange’?” Bobby asks skeptically over the phone. “Damn boy didn’t go and get himself possessed again, did he?”  
  
“No, I checked the tat. It’s still in one piece,” Dean answers, running a hand through his hair, feeling antsy and nervous. He’s on a solo beer run, having left Sam a note while he was in the shower, and he’s just now realizing that it’s the first time in weeks that he’s been away from his brother for any amount of time. “I mean…” he makes a frustrated noise through his nose. “ _Strange_. Kinda… clingy, I guess. It’s still him, though. I ran every test I could think of, a lot of ‘em while he was sleeping. He passed every one.”  
  
“Whaddya mean ‘clingy’?” Bobby asks in the exact same tone as before.  
  
Dean puts the phone down by his side for a moment, eyes turning up the sky as he takes a deep breath. Fuck, Bobby just can’t make anything easy. When Dean brings the phone back up, he sighs and tries to figure out how to say this without things getting awkward. “Sam refuses to let me out of his sight,” he explains. “He’s… handsy and moody when we’re around other people, and he been cock-blocking me with waitresses for weeks now. He also… I swear, he’s smelling me sometimes, okay? Does that make things clear yet?”  
  
“Don’t give me that tone, boy,” Bobby immediately gripes back. “You want my help or not? Because I hate to break it to you, but ‘clingy’ ain’t exactly a key characteristic of any monster I can think of. Now, I can probably run a few more tests on the kid, but you’re gonna have to bring him by for that. So I’ll do what I can with that limited information, but my suggestion is to get him here asap. Okay?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Dean agrees, mind already racing through the fastest routes to get to South Dakota. “See ya in a couple days, Bobby.”  
  
* &*  
  
When Dean tells Sam that Bobby needs their help with something and they’ve gotta swing by his place, Sam takes it in stride, doesn’t even ask questions.  
  
They get about halfway there before they stop for the night. Dean thinks about warning Sam to lay off, although he doesn’t really think it will do any good. Sam can be a stubborn bitch sometimes, and Dean figures he can live with one more night of unsolicited cuddles.  
  
He’s not sure if it’s the anxiety and worry about getting to Bobby’s, but Dean has trouble sleeping. When Sam curls around his back, mouth trailing along his shoulders, Dean’s wide awake, and he tries to shake his brother off his body.  
  
“ _C’mon_ , Sam,” he whines. “You gotta know this ain’t right.”  
  
Sam makes a noncommittal sound, mouth still sucking bruises into Dean’s skin. His hands snake forward, wrapping around Dean’s chest, and Dean grunts as he tries to shove them away. But as soon as he starts struggling, Sam grabs him by the shoulders and flips Dean onto his back. Kicking a long leg over Dean, Sam straddles his stomach and pins him down with his hips.  
  
“ _Shh_ ,” Sam says, grabbing Dean’s arm and forcing him down. He leans in and presses his mouth against Dean’s, grabbing Dean’s jaw when he tries to move his face away. Sam’s tongue fills Dean’s mouth, licking in sloppily, no seduction or finesse in his movements, just pushing in with a determination and need that edge into manic.  
  
“Stop it,” Dean tries again, but Sam ignores his muffled words, goes in harder, teeth scraping against Dean’s lips. After a few minutes, a strange heaviness starts to settle in Dean’s limbs, making it harder for him to struggle. His arms and legs are reacting slowly, like he’s underwater, and when Sam finally turns his head and gives Dean a chance to breathe, Dean says: “What the hell did you do to me?”  
  
“Nothing,” Sam pants heavily into the side of Dean’s neck. “I just…  _god_ , Dean, you have to know that you belong to me, right?”  
  
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean agrees carefully, more than a little worried about the crazy clouding his brother’s eyes. “I know. But not like this, okay?”  
  
A dangerous expression crosses his face as Sam lifts his head to look at his older brother. His hands tighten around Dean’s arms, and something that sounds like a growl vibrates up Sam’s chest. When Dean unsuccessfully tries to move away, Sam holds on tighter, fingers digging in until Dean makes a small noise as his brother’s nails pierce skin.  
  
The wet feel of blood against his fingers seems to shake Sam enough to loosen his vice-like grip and his eyes soften in concern. “Sorry,” he mumbles, moving his head down, pressing his lips against Dean’s wounds in a way that inevitably makes Dean think of patching up a much smaller Sam, using Band-aids and kisses to heal scraped knees and cut fingers. It’s a strange sense of reverse-déjà vu to feel Sam’s lips on his aching skin, soothing Dean’s pains, nevermind the fact that Sam had been the one to inflict them in the first place.  
  
As Sam’s mouth presses into the bleeding tears, his hips start to move, rubbing up and down in a way that feels too good against Dean’s confused, easily-stimulated dick.  
  
“Sorry,” his brother mumbles again against Dean’s arm. When his head comes up this time, there’s a smear of blood across his lower lip. “You just – you can’t leave me, okay? I’m supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to go with you.”  
  
“You can’t. Nothing’s gonna stop my ass from being dragged to Hell,” Dean states bluntly, his voice a little uneven as he begins to harden under his brother’s smooth movements, his cock ignoring every protest from his brain. “My bill comes due in just over a month, and you’re gonna have to let me go.”  
  
When Sam’s hands tighten again and he glares down at Dean with a stubborn set to his jaw, Dean knows that was exactly the wrong thing to say. Shaking his head, Sam scoots back so he can get his mouth on Dean’s chest.  
  
“Not letting you go,” he says, teeth grazing over a nipple. Dean immediately sucks in a sharp breath, his body twitching. Dean can feel Sam’s smile when he trails over the pink nub again, chuckling when Dean makes a tiny gasp.  
  
“Sensitive,” Sam comments, sounding pleased. He pinches Dean’s nipple between his fingers while his mouth starts to move lower, nipping skin then laving it with his tongue until he’s breathing over Dean’s mostly-hard cock. Grabbing the waist band of Dean’s boxers between his fingers, Sam pulls them off and lets them drop to the floor.  
  
Feeling utterly exposed, Dean watches Sam pause and stare at the landscape of Dean’s body, at freckled skin stripped bare and lips and nipples bitten into a bruised, dark pink. The hunger in Sam’s gaze cuts past skin and bones, pierces deep to greedily wrap around Dean’s soul. Whatever this is, it’s not just a fuck to Sam. Dean wants to crawl under the covers because seeing just how much his brother wants him is too much, too wrong.  
  
There’s no way feelings this strong have developed overnight. Dean wonders how long Sam’s held these distinctly un-brotherly feelings towards him; if it’s possible that Sam’s had them for years and Dean’s somehow been oblivious to all the signs.  
  
One of Sam’s hands slides down his own stomach, his fingers skating across the erection tenting the front of his shorts. A pink, aroused flush spills across Sam’s cheeks as he takes a firmer grasp on his cock, still staring at Dean like he’s the hottest sight Sam’s ever seen.  
  
Unable to handle the lust radiating from his brother, Dean shakes his head in short, sluggish movements. Sam’s eyes lock onto his, and he reaches out with his other hand to brush the edge of Dean’s hairline with his fingers.  
  
“Shh,” he says again, like he’s calming a nervous horse. He leans down to press a light kiss just below Dean’s belly button. “It’s okay. Relax, Dean, don’t fight me on this. Be good for me.”  
  
When Sam swallows him down, taking the head of Dean’s cock until it just touches his throat, a surprised moan leaks through Dean’s lips. Dean’s traitor body reacts to every touch, his skin heating up and his dick blurting out precome in response to Sam’s talented tongue and fingers. Some small part of his brain still remembers that he doesn’t really want this, although it’s a struggle to fight against how good it feels.  
  
“Sam,” Dean manages to choke out. “You can’t – ”  
  
His words cut off in surprise as Sam pulls back and lets Dean’s cock pop out of his mouth. The cold air and lack of pressure are a shock, and Dean almost begs his brother to put his dick back in his mouth because he’s so damn close that it aches. But then Sam’s hand slides down and starts jacking Dean in brisk, fluid movements, and Dean lets that pleasure sink past his resistance.  
  
Leaning up, Sam presses his mouth into Dean’s again, his tongue and lips coated with bitter flavor. Dean doesn’t protest this time, just lets Sam lick back into his mouth, resigned to the fact that this is happening regardless of whether or not he agreed to it.  
  
When Dean’s breathing starts running ragged, Sam pushes himself back down between Dean’s thighs and seals his mouth over the head of Dean’s cock, his hand still twisting up and down. Dean’s not sure where Sam learned to do this, but it’s the perfect amount of pressure and heat, and within seconds Dean’s muffling a shout and coming straight down his brother’s throat. Dean’s eyes squeeze shut as Sam swallows every pulse then licks around Dean’s spent dick like he doesn’t want to miss a single drop.  
  
“Fuck Dean, you taste good,” Sam says in a low, appreciative voice. With the sharp tang of his own precome still on his lips, Dean’s not sure if he agrees. When Dean feels his dick turning sensitive from all that post-orgasm touching, Sam finally moves away, putting a hand on Dean’s stomach as he says, “Stay there.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes in response, although Sam’s already left. Dean still can’t move, and he suddenly wonders if Sam even knows that. He can’t turn his head to see what Sam’s doing, but his brother comes back in less than a minute and pushes Dean’s legs up and open. A wet finger circles Dean’s hole, and Dean can feel hot shame wash over him over letting his brother use him like this.  
  
“Sam,” he says tiredly, although it’s not even an objection at this point. Sam’s already torn down so many walls between them tonight that Dean figures one more isn’t worth worrying about, not when it won’t do him any good anyway. He’s not sure if it’s due to the paralysis or not, but Sam’s fingers breaching him don’t hurt as much as he’d been expecting. There’s a slight burn and pressure, but it’s manageable, and he figures that if Sammy really wants this, he can let him have it. Not that Dean seems to have a choice.  
  
As Sam’s fingers work in Dean’s ass, loosening the rim and scissoring to make room for what’s to come, Sam starts mouthing along Dean’s chest, telling Dean how much he wants this, how he can’t stop now, not with Dean looking so beautifully fucked out and ready and smelling _so damn good_. Dean doesn’t respond. He’s closed his eyes, trying to block everything out and retreat into his mind. A sharp slap to his cheek has Dean’s eyes flying open, and he sees his brother’s frown slowly transmute into a small smile.  
  
“There you are,” Sam says, leaning in to place his lips against Dean’s in an almost-chaste kiss. “Keep those eyes open for me, baby.”  
  
Dean cringes internally at the endearment but obeys his brother’s request, keeping his eyes on Sam as he pulls his fingers out then lines his dick up and pushes inside, quick and hard like Sam’s can’t wait another second to fill Dean up.  
  
Even with most of Dean’s body forcibly relaxed, it still hurts. Sam’s face ends up buried in Dean’s neck again, breaths coming hot and fast as he fucks his brother hard enough to jolt the bed against the wall.  
  
Just before Sam comes, he clamps his mouth on the side of Dean’s neck and bites down hard. His hips snap to fit as snugly as possible against Dean’s ass, and Sam releases a sharp breath as he shoots hot and sticky deep inside his brother. Soft moans ripple up the side of Dean’s neck, vibrating up skin and tendons.  
  
Shifting so he’s not crushing Dean anymore, Sam rolls to the side and sprawls his long limbs across Dean’s body. He dozes right away, tucking himself against Dean and snoring into his shoulder. Dean can feel a purpling set of teeth marks already bruising his neck.  
  
Despite his recent orgasm, the not-sleeping-thing hasn’t let up for Dean, and he stares at the ceiling for a good while, just hoping to make it until morning. His limbs still haven’t regained their motor functions. Dean can’t move so much as a finger or a toe, and he worriedly wonders how much longer his paralysis is going to last.  
  
It’s a few hours later when he notices they’re not alone in the room, that something else has joined them. Dean attempts to reach for the knife under his pillow, but his hand still stubbornly refuses to obey the command from his brain.  
  
“Hello boys,” a distinctively English voice greets as a figure steps up, red eyes flashing in a tell-tale way of crossroads demons. “My, my. Isn’t this… cozy.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s a fuckin’ Kodak moment,” Dean answers with a frown, bravado his only defense at this point. “Who the fuck are you?”  
  
The demon makes a disappointed face. “I thought you’d be expecting me,” he chides. “Word on the street is that you’ve gone through a few of my boys, trying to get them to name names and spill state secrets.”  
  
Wishing he could do anything other than just lie there, Dean settles for aiming his best glare at the creature posing as a man. “You the demon that holds my contract?”  
  
Pleased smirk on his lips, he says, “You’re not as stupid as you look. Although I’m not the actual contract holder, per say, so much as her representative. Lilith sends her love, by the way. She’d be here herself but she’s on holiday at the moment, holed up nice and cozy in some young blonde thing. But she promises to visit you on the rack when she’s done and make it up to you in all sorts of bloody, bone-snapping ways.”  
  
Next to Dean, Sam shifts in his sleep, and Dean wonders how it’s possible that his brother has slept through this entire exchange. “What did you do to my brother?” Dean growls out. There’s no way it’s a coincidence that this demon’s showing up _now_ , just as Sam’s crazy train has started to derail completely.  
  
“Me?” the red-eyed demon asks, feigning innocence. “I did nothing; I’m just the collector. But Azazel did warn you. Sam _died_ , Dean, and Hell already had a claim on that soul. You don’t think there wasn’t a crowd of demons on the other side, just waiting to taste our boy-King?  When you pulled him topside again and gave us a chance to collect that delicious soul of yours, your brother came back with… an infection, so to speak. Something I’ll call, for the sake of your simplistic, ant-sized mind, a form of hellish rabies.”  
  
Dean’s quiet for a moment, mind cranking as he attempts to decipher the meaning of the demon’s words. Then, his voice a dark growl, he demands, “Are you telling me that my brother’s turning into a hellhound?”  
  
Snorting, the demon shakes his head. “Not literally. But all the hell-beasts have a little something in them to keep them in line. They aren’t naturally obedient. Your brother’s not going to grow a tail, if that’s what you’re thinking, although more’s the pity since I think he would look rather fetching. I am, however, considering a collar. What do you think, something in black leather? A tag that reads ‘Lucifer’s Bitch’?”  
  
“If you think I won’t find a way to crawl out of that pit and gank your ass…” Dean threatens.  
  
“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll be too busy being a human pincushion to remember little old me for a while yet,” he answers calmly, stepping closer to take an interested glance at Sam. “And you’re a little too immobile right now to try it. Most humans never live long enough to experience it, but hellhound saliva acts as a muscle relaxant in small doses and a paralytic in larger. Although I don’t know why you’ve got your panties in such a twist. You got what you wanted. You’re going to Hell, and Sam’s alive. You never specified in what condition.”  
  
“You son of a bitch,” Dean spits out angrily, then, voice edged with desperation, adds, “You can’t take me now. I’ve got thirty-five days left in my contract.”  
  
The demon shrugs. “That’s out of my hands. You see, it’s not me who is going to escort you to the Inferno. It’s Sammy. Those keen doggy senses of his have been telling him that you belong to us, and the compulsion to rip into you and drag you down is getting harder for him to ignore. That overgrown, boy-band-haired brother of yours just needs a little push in the right direction, and he’ll do all the work for me.”  
  
With a raise of his hand, the demon snaps his fingers, and Dean feels Sam instantly wake up, a growl thundering in his chest as he rises to his hands and knees. Hovering over Dean, Sam places a palm in the middle of his chest, fingers curling as he digs his nails in deep enough to make blood well up thick and bright.  
  
A dark fear rises up Dean’s throat that has him babbling words before he’s even aware that he’d opened his mouth. “Don’t do it, Sammy, don’t do it,” Dean pleads in a low, frantic voice. His words cut off with a sharp hiss as Sam rakes his fingernails down, creating five long red trails that burn like a motherfucker.  
  
There’s no sympathy in Sam’s eyes, just bestial instinct and ancient hunger, and Dean already knows he’s not going to survive this. But he tries to reach Sam anyway. “ _Please_ , Sam,” Dean says in a tight, stressed voice. “I’m your brother, remember?” Sam stares at him dispassionately, and the edges of Dean’s eyes prickle with tears as he realizes that he’s really going to die, and everything he’d ever said about being ready or okay with it was bullshit and lies.  
  
Dean can hear amused, dark laughter next to the bed as a hand comes up to pat Sam’s back with the same affection one would give a well-behaved pet. With a smile in his voice, the crossroads demon barks out, “Sic ‘em, boy,” and Sam’s dimples flash in a sinister, eager smile just before he lunges at Dean’s throat.


End file.
